Players of Fate
by Sariniste
Summary: What made Tom Riddle become the person he was? Harry was about to find out after being somehow sent back to 1943 Hogwarts. But what he learned was... unexpected. Based on Past's Player by The Fictionist, with permission. No slash.


**Players of Fate – Chap. 1**

(Originally posted 5/13/12)

**A/N:** I have suddenly and quite unexpectedly been struck by the desire to write in a new fandom.

Although I love the Harry Potter series, I never thought I'd write HP fanfiction because I haven't felt that much affinity with the characters, as opposed to the anime and manga _Bleach_, where many of the characters utterly captivated me from the beginning.

But then I stumbled across **The Fictionist's** Harry Potter/Tom Riddle story, _Past's Player_, and I fell instantly in love. Those of you who have read my _Bleach_ fanfiction are no doubt aware that I am enamored of villain/protagonist pairings, and here was a glorious and elegant villain like the ones I've always preferred, and a fierce and intelligent Harry who was a delight to read. (I highly recommend _Past's Player_, by the way, especially to everyone who likes my Ichigo/Aizen stories.)

So here is my take on **The Fictionist's** universe of Harry and Tom, borrowed with permission. I think her characters are better than Rowling's originals. I am going to be starting from her storyline but filling in some gaps, especially in Tom's backstory, and taking the plot in a slightly different direction.

In deference to her request, there will be no romance between Harry and Tom in this story, just an intense… relationship.

In _Past's Player_, a sixteen-year-old Harry travels back in time to the Hogwarts of 1943, where he meets Tom Riddle, a fifth year student and prefect in Slytherin. Dippet is headmaster and Dumbledore Transfiguration professor. They know he is a time traveler and construct a false persona for him to preserve the timeline, homeschooled student "Harrison Evans." Harry has to deal with the shock of adjusting to a new life in a different decade away from everyone he knows, all the while attempting to fend off Tom Riddle's surprising interest in him, while trying not to reveal what he knows about everybody's future, especially Tom's. This is made more difficult by the fact that the Sorting Hat has inexplicably placed Harry in Slytherin this time around. Here, Harry is forced to spend a great deal of time with his dorm-mates, including the ancestors of some of the people he knew in his own time, Abraxas Malfoy, Cygnus Lestrange, and Alphard Black—as well as Tom Riddle.

In this scene from chapter 3 of _Past's Player_, taking place in September 1943, Harry has made friends in his "new" school, a Hufflepuff boy called Roger Watkins, and a Ravenclaw girl named Imogen Pierce. There are some similarities to Ron and Hermione in Roger and Imogen.

XxXxXxX

_Harry, Roger, and Imogen were sitting in the library doing Defense Against the Dark Arts homework._

_"What's going on between you and Tom Riddle?" Imogen asked suddenly, studying him. _

_Harry started. "Going on? What do you mean 'going on'? There's nothing going on between me and Riddle, I can assure you of that!" Harry replied._

_Imogen looked skeptical, and Roger's attention had shifted onto the conversation too._

_"Really?" she questioned dubiously. "It's just that…well. Never mind."_

_"What?" Harry demanded. Imogen appeared marginally uncomfortable._

_"Well, it's just that…um, it kind of seems like there is—something going on between you, I mean. Every time you two start talking—and for someone who claims disinterest as much as you, you do talk to him at least once a day—it's somewhat, er, intense."_

_Harry stared at her, gob smacked._

_Roger twirled his pen anxiously. "With everyone else, and us, you seem quiet and stuff but with __him__, I don't know, your personality just completely seems to shift…not that I'm complaining or anything, mind," Roger added hastily, eyeing him kindly with big toffee brown eyes. "It's just…well…if there was something going on, you would tell us, wouldn't you? And, er, keep us out of it?"_

_"Keep you out of it?" Harry repeated, feeling slightly lost._

_Imogen shot her mousy friend a sharp look, before sighing. "The point is, you don't get in his way. He's…dangerous. Utterly gorgeous and incredibly intelligent, but…dangerous if he's crossed. You probably haven't heard _those _stories…"_

_Harry leaned forward, despite himself, fascinated. "What stories?"_

—_excerpted from Chapter Three of __**Past's Player**__ by __**The Fictionist **__(quoted with permission)_

_[The Fictionist didn't go into detail about any of those 'stories,' other than saying they were 'tales of how efficiently and ruthlessly Tom cut down his opponents…every single person who'd once rebelled against his power and control had ended up desperate for attention, broken husks, pets and toys.' It was all very intriguing. ;) So I thought I'd fill in the gap…]_

XxXxXxX

Imogen lowered her voice, nervously glancing to both sides before she began. No one was sitting near enough to overhear. "It started in our very first year. There was this boy, Abraxas Malfoy—have you met him?"

At Harry's nod and scowl, she continued. "Malfoy—who was an utter git, by the way, even back then— decided he was going to be top dog in his year, and he had pureblood friends he knew from before who were going to back him up. He… started clashing with Riddle from the beginning."

Harry looked at her in disbelief. "Malfoy? Riddle's devoted follower who doesn't even breathe without his master's permission?" He raised his eyebrows. "Are we talking about the same git?"

Imogen nodded earnestly. "He challenged Riddle openly several times in the very first week of school…"

XxXxXxX

Down in the Slytherin common room, Tom Riddle stirred, a distracted expression crossing his fine features, abruptly turning away from the student who had been speaking to him, dismissing him without a thought.

He had recently developed an experimental spell, placing a charm upon his name so that whenever any student mentioned him, anywhere within Hogwarts, their words would be transmitted to him. He wasn't yet ready to perform the magic on any of the professors, but none of the students in this school, he thought contemptuously, were advanced enough to detect it. It had already yielded some very valuable information that he had put to good use in a spot of blackmail… and now, it seemed, it was about to deliver some fascinating intelligence on his new quarry.

He listened for a moment as he realized that Imogen Pierce was telling Harrison Evans all about some of the exploits he himself had encouraged be spread through the rumor mill. A subtle smirk twisted his lips as he wondered what Harrison would think if he knew the full truth of how it all happened…

XxXxXxX

_Hogwarts, September 1939_

The tall, black-haired eleven-year-old glanced around him covertly as the group of students in black robes moved noisily down the damp passageways. At last— at last! Tom Riddle was at Hogwarts, where he belonged; finally, with his own kind: magic users. His expression was calm, even supercilious, but inside he was burning with a fierce joy. They had just left the Great Hall, where he had been sorted into Slytherin, of course, and a prefect was leading the group of new first-year students into the dungeons.

His life—his _real_ life— was just beginning. Finally he could leave behind the Muggle filth, the squalor and pettiness of the orphanage, and become the person he was destined to be.

They continued down slanting, low-ceilinged passages rough-hewn from stone. The walls simply reeked of magic; Tom could feel it. Ever since he had come to Hogwarts he could feel it. This building had seen great magical deeds for centuries, and held the secrets that would finally grant him everything he ever wanted. He burned with excitement, all the while his violet eyes were dutifully fixed on the Slytherin prefect who was lazily describing some of the illustrious—and sinister— forebears of Slytherin House. Three of the other first-year boys were already talking in whispers to each other and shooting glances at him, but he ignored them.

The prefect, a heavy-set boy with neatly trimmed brown hair and a square jaw, stopped in front of a blank section of stone wall. "Listen everyone, I'm only going to tell you once," he said disdainfully. "The password is 'squamate.'"

The wall slid open and they all entered. Tom's eyes flicked around the large, low-ceilinged room lit with greenish light from intricately wrought bronze lamps hanging on heavy chains from the ceiling. He could sense the magic even more strongly in this room, and as he looked more closely at the walls and ceiling, he realized that carved into the heavy, greenish stone all around the room were… snakes. Long and sinuous serpents, intertwined round the stone columns holding up the ceiling, carved into the long mantelpiece over the fireplace at one end of the room, boas and pythons and vipers with glittering eyes that followed him as he entered.

The corners of his lips curled subtly. He could almost hear the hissing as they welcomed him. Home. He was home.

The prefect threw open a door to the first-year dorm, where several four-poster beds were lined up in another low-ceilinged, stone-walled room. He realized abruptly he was exhausted. It had been a long and exciting day, and he was more than ready to sleep. He pushed ahead of the others and walked to the end of the row, to take the bed closest to the wall. He didn't want others passing by his bed every morning; he was used to having his own space in the orphanage. Sharing with others was distasteful.

"Hey." The blond with pale eyes was staring at him with a look of pure hostility. Tom narrowed his eyes and gazed back, meeting the other's eyes with an unyielding stare.

"Yes?" he inquired with mocking politeness, and was pleased to see those silver eyes narrow.

"That's my bed there," drawled the other, a mean smirk appearing on his face. "You take the one by the door," he ordered. Two of the other boys, a dark-haired one with thick lips and a black-haired, tall boy, moved to stand beside the blond, closing ranks, grinning in anticipation.

Tom gave the other a hard stare. So the dominance games were beginning already? Well, he could play at that. He let his magic flick out, testing the others, tasting their power with quick licks of his senses. As he suspected, their auras were muddy and undisciplined.

He knew who they were, of course. Malfoy, Lestrange, and Black. The old pureblood families. They had likely all grown up together, wealthy, snobbish families refusing to associate with those they thought beneath them. Everything had been handed to them, and they had never had to work for anything.

Not like Tom had worked. Over the summer, ever since Dumbledore had brought him the news of his appointment to Hogwarts, he had been working, studying, learning everything he could learn about the magical world. Whereas this blond idiot thought that because of the luck of his birth, he was entitled to everything.

"What sort of name is _Riddle_?" taunted Malfoy. "That's a Muggle name. How did they let a _mudblood _into Slytherin?" He glanced at his companions, a superior smirk on his pale features. "Actually, I don't think it's appropriate that purebloods have to share a dorm room with a mudblood, do you?" he drawled. Lestrange and Black sneered, and Malfoy looked back at Tom. "I think you're going to sleep in the kitchens tonight, with the house-elves." He grinned, a cruel glint appearing in his eyes, and advanced on the black-haired boy, his friends moving with him. Their eyes were uniformly hard.

Tom stood still for a moment, considering how he would deal with this situation. It was three against one, and they were all magic users. What's more, these three no doubt had experience with spells from their magical families; a background Tom lacked.

He was accustomed to being disliked. At the orphanage, everyone had disliked him as far back as he could remember. There was no choice except to make them all fear him. He had been quite successful at that, he recalled with inner amusement. But here, he had planned to do something different. Here, he would start afresh. No one knew what he was like, so he could become anybody. A model student, charming and popular, if he chose. At least to the teachers, to the ones with power.

Indeed, he had already begun to build his new persona. He had only made one mistake; when he had met Dumbledore, in his shock and surprised glee, he had let too much of his true self show. It was a mistake he had sworn never to make again. He had instantly seen that Dumbledore had taken a dislike to him, had distrusted him from the beginning. It was why he had insisted he could go to Diagon Alley on his own, could make his purchases by himself. He didn't want Dumbledore accompanying him, tainting everyone's view of him. He would create his new persona better without any witnesses. After all, he was only eleven. There was plenty of time to craft the image he would want to project to the wizarding world.

And he had been successful. The meager allowance Dumbledore had given him had been just barely sufficient to buy his school supplies. And yet… he had gone back over and over to Flourish and Blotts, his fingers itching to hold the heavy, ancient books, books of leather, cloth, and cardboard, rich with elaborate runes, brimming with secrets—the secrets he needed to finally gain what he needed, what he deserved, the secret way to power. Knowledge was power and he was going to get it any way possible.

He had no money, but he had started with his new persona on the witch hunched over an ancient book filled with cramped writing, sitting on a tall stool behind the counter. She had a double chin and greasy grey hair, dusty robes, and ink stains on her fingers.

She looked up as he approached. "May I help you, son?" she asked in a voice that sounded rusty from disuse.

"Hello," he returned courteously. "I was just noticing you were reading Morganthorpe's _Charms and Countercharms_," he said, indicating her book. "Tell me, do you prefer it to Verrantor's work?" He flashed her a charming smile.

She started, and then her eyes flicked to him in vague suspicion. "What's a young kid like you reading Verrantor?" she demanded. Her eyes dropped down to the book, then back to up him.

He moved closer, holding his smile, favoring her with an intense gaze. "I love reading," he murmured.

Her eyes met his, and something passed between them. He had been observing her for several days, had noticed she appeared to prefer to read the bookstore's wares rather than attend to customers. She never made small talk with the customers, simply rang up their purchases. But she was always reading. He knew she would recognize a kindred spirit in him, another lover of books. He would use that apparent affinity to charm and manipulate her.

It did not take long before she was recommending books for him to read, and even allowing him into the back room where he could read in peace, in return for helping her shelve books and keep an eye on the customers while she read.

In that room, he had delved into treatises on magic, collections of spells, had pored over learned tomes on the theory of magic. He had at once realized that the restriction on the use of magical power by underage wizards would be a major obstacle to his desires, and he immediately determined that he would need to find a way around it.

In a dog-eared and dusty book he had found it, a theory on magical camouflage. As he read, he grew more and more excited. This was it. This was the answer to the problem of the pesky Ministry spying on him and keeping from doing what he wanted.

He cast his first spell with his wand later that afternoon, weaving his magic in and out of the ambient power levels flexing and swirling around Diagon Alley. Then he had waited, on tenterhooks, for a full day, waiting to see if he had indeed fooled those interfering spies at the Ministry.

There had been no response, and he had been gleeful. Of course those stupid idiots were no match for him. He was eleven years old, and already better than the adults. He was clever enough to use anyone, even the adults, as he wished, he realized with a twist of dark pleasure deep within. The bookstore witch was as clueless as anyone else. He began stealthily pilfering certain of the books, taking advantage of her trust in him to alter some of the inventory numbers in the bookstore accounts. If his thefts were ever discovered, they could never be traced back to him.

At the orphanage, he was always the prime suspect, so he had had to rely on intimidation and fear to avoid being punished for his crimes. But now, out in the wide world, with thousands of marks to prey upon and to use for misdirection, it would all be different. He would make certain that he would get away with taking whatever he wanted. This time, he would maintain the perfect image, the flawless façade, while covertly being as ruthless as he pleased.

From that day on he had practiced magic, secretly, every moment that he could sneak away from the orphanage, working his way diligently through all the basic exercises in his textbooks. His already thin face grew thinner as he skipped the meager orphanage meals in order to practice, to work on the ability that he knew, at last, would lead him to greatness. Unfortunately, many of the spells were still beyond his ability. He still needed to attend Hogwarts, to get the training that he could not get from books. Yet the rules prevented him from attending until September. Months away. He had cursed the adults of the wizarding world, the adults who always made stupid and restrictive rules, rules specifically designed to keep everyone else down. To keep the ones in power on top, and everyone else out.

Ones like these three pureblood boys, standing so arrogantly in front of him now, so confident in their superiority, yet so pathetic in their lack of true ability. His eyes narrowed. He knew enough of how to use his power that he could utterly destroy them now, could rip their magic from them and damage them irreparably. He had far more control over his power than they did.

But would that be the right decision? He paused, his fingertips touching his wand.

No. It would be too easy. As well as not in keeping with his new persona. There might be repercussions from the boys' families, not the most auspicious beginning for one who intended to rise in the wizarding world. No, brute force was not the way to handle this.

A dark smile crept over his face as he regarded his victims. It would be so much more fun to take it slowly, to play with them before he brought them down, to gradually turn them into his fawning slaves rather than smashing them in a single blow.

He stepped forward, his eyes glittering as he fixed them upon the blond. He allowed his aura to expand slightly, just enough to loom over the boy in front of him. "Abraxas Malfoy, is it?" he murmured as he moved closer, taking advantage of his height to make the boy look up to him to meet his eyes. "What do you truly know of my parentage?" he asked, his voice smooth as silk, with a subtle menace pulsing underneath.

The blond's bravado faltered slightly at the other's confidence. He stared up at the dark-haired boy, whose violet eyes had turned intense and burning, suddenly tongue-tied. Riddle towered over him, and to his chagrin, he found himself taking a step backward, and swallowing.

He couldn't let this mudblood get the better of him! And yet… He licked his lips. "Who were your parents then? Were they our kind?" he inquired in an attempt at bluster, only for his voice, annoyingly, to waver. He tried to turn aside, to catch the eyes of one of his friends, to get them to back him up, but he found he could not tear his gaze away from that burning, menacing violet stare.

The dark-haired boy smiled, a sinister smile full of secret knowledge, knowledge that Malfoy suddenly, inexplicably, wished he had. It was shocking. How had this other boy turned the tables on him so rapidly? Riddle took another step forward, pushing into his personal space, looking down on him even further. "Don't you _wish_ you knew my ancestry?" he mocked in a low voice. "You'll learn about it soon enough—to your grief."

Then Riddle turned away, arrogantly turning his back on the three of them. "I suggest that it would be in your best interests to leave me alone," he murmured with soft menace as he walked to the bed he had originally claimed. He sat down and began casually drawing off his clothes in preparation for sleep.

Malfoy was struck dumb, suddenly, irritatingly, unsure. Angry and confused, he glanced at his friends. Black simply shrugged and turned away. Lestrange, on the other hand, was staring at the dark-haired boy, an odd expression on his face. Unnerved, Malfoy turned away as well, and moved to claim one of the other beds. Inside, he was both confused and furious. This was not over yet. This boy, Riddle, would not get the better of him. He would figure out what was going on and would bring him down.

He wasn't the scion of generations of Slytherins for nothing.

XxXxXxX

**A/N:** So what do you think? Is this worth continuing? (Don't worry, I won't abandon my other stories; I promise to finish them no matter what.)

I welcome, indeed crave, constructive criticism. Especially since I'm writing in a new fandom and am not as knowledgeable about HP as I am about _Bleach_. Please feel free to tell me whatever I need to fix or change.


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